


Liebestraum

by upyourarse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, Pining, piano loving sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upyourarse/pseuds/upyourarse
Summary: "You are my Liebestraum, my love dream."





	1. Beautiful Secret

Sherlock had a secret. Only a few people knew it (Mycroft, Mummy, Father, Mrs. Turner, Cook, and the Gardener at Holmes Manor) and he's not planning to add any more people to that list.

He loves the piano.

His violin, which John and Mrs. Hudson knew, was one of his most treasured objects. It was his stress reliever, one of the few ways people knew about his emotions. But the piano, with its seemingly endless keys, shared his love. 

After he got off university and lived off his own, he had no access to a piano. Their grand piano at the mansion was his source of joy in the times of silence at home, for he would play with his violin in his room or in the garden, much to the amusement of the gardener and the birds resting in the trees. 

It really didn't bother him before, and it shouldn't be bothering him now - but it is. His hands sometimes grew wearing of his bow against four steel strings, which frankly surprised him, and they ached for the smooth ivory keys he grew up with. There could only be one reason for this.

John.

His nightmares were getting worse as of late, and the melodic tones of a piano would be perfect. Sherlock imagined playing Liebestraum on it for John, but his violin would have to do for now. 

He started off sweetly, thinking of John when he thinks hard on what to write in his blog at one in the morning. John when he runs out to buy takeout for Sherlock on a whim because he thinks Sherlock looks pale (and knows that he is on another one of his "fasting" streaks). 

The music builds, deeper and light at the same time, as he thinks of running around London chasing murderers and thieves, knowing he is safe through the second set of footsteps always behind him. He is lost in his mind, his hands following his train of thought as they continue to play the piece. 

It feels like flying and falling, as he lets out everything about John, how he thinks he loves him but lost all his faith in the concept. Out of all the peo?ple in the world, this broken soldier came and brought the spark of life, the reason for existence in his wake. A druggie with an IQ far higher than Einstein's who always stands out and a retired army medic who seems to blend in everywhere he goes doesn't seem to fit, but it just does. 

As he played, the sounds of a creaking bed and rustling sheets stopped. 

He couldn't take this anymore. 

He got his empty music sheets and sat down, the pencil in his hand full of promises. How can he convey what he is feeling for this extraordinarily normal man? Composing music usually came easy to him, but that was when he was bored or experiencing something that was not love. This is John, the man who thinks he is brilliant, who gets pissed off at the disorganized body parts in the fridge but smiles fondly at Sherlock when he thinks Sherlock doesn't notice.

He begins to write the first measure, and gets lost in his mind once more.


	2. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary comes into the picture, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do.
> 
> (I'm sorry this is really short, but I wanted to update before the new year. Happy New Year everyone! May 2017 be a really great and inspiring year for us all.)

Morning crept up, just like it always does on Sherlock, the soft yellow light indicating that John would be coming down any moment now, fresh from another battle with his demons.

Sherlock stopped composing after around 3 pages, having found out that his frustration and unfamiliarity of love were overpowering what he wanted John to hear, and maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He proclaimed (temporary) defeat, and continued his experiment on the different rates of post-mortem decay in animals through different types of poisons.

After a few samples, Sherlock got distracted. He never got distracted from his experiments, but then again this was John, so he supposed that he was more important to think about.

He’d never expected anything to be of more importance to the Work. This was surprising.

Suddenly, he was aware of weary footsteps on the floor above him, and the door of the second floor opening. Finally, John was awake. Sherlock waited until John came in, deciding on the usual silent routine.

“Have you still got the fingers in the kettle?” John asked, not fully up yet. He waited for an answer he knew he wasn’t getting.

Starting his usual routine of tea-and-toast-making, Sherlock quietly observed him and noticed that he had the usual dark rings under his eyes but he looked like he was more relaxed than usual as he went in search of the coffee pot after finding that the fingers were in the kettle, which means that Sherlock’s violin playing last night was a lullaby for his haunting past to rest for a moment.

“So I’m just heading over to the clinic, I’ve got to work today. After that, I’ll be staying at Mary’s so try to remember to feed yourself. Get some sleep too, I know you haven’t been…”

Sherlock stops listening, his mind frozen over one word. _Mary_. He knows that John has been seeking out someone, but he tries not to think about it. He already uses a lot of brain power to think about how to suppress his feelings for John, and all that just threw out the window.

Sherlock abruptly stood up, rattling the petri dishes and cups on the table, and headed over to the sofa to sulk.

John, still shocked, just continues to wait for the tea, feels confused. What did he say? Is it about him going to work? Or about him staying over at Mary’s? He decides to ask, unfazed by the current mood that he knows he shouldn’t be surprised over.

“What are you sulking about at six in the morning? Is it something I said?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, lets out a loud sigh, and tries to burrow further in the cushions. The coffee pot beeps, so John answers Sherlock with a rivaling harrumph and goes to the kitchen.

This turned out to be a bad morning.


	3. A Call To Holmes House

Days turned into weeks, time flies as cases and clients fly by like feathers in the wind. 

Sherlock frantically upturned stacks of case files and experiment notes, looking for a list given to him by John a few days ago on things to replace in the kitchen because he used all the spoons during one of his experiments and John had then continued to interrogate him on the other things he’s used which, in John’s opinion and command, are automatically deemed unsafe and should immediately be replaced. 

Why Sherlock seems to care, he tries desperately not to think about it. John was in a sour mood, and it might have to do with the fact that he tried to make tea and there was no milk (which is a regular occurrence that no one should be surprised at anymore), so he went up to his room with a shake of his head and a scowl on his face.

He gave up finding the list and shoved the stack on the table to the floor, scattering a jumbled mess of paper onto the living room floor. As he stared at the papers with disgust, he saw a particular few that made his breath hitch and his mind race to a stop. He slowly picked them up with a slightly trembling hand, and wondered why the hell had he left them there for everyone to see, if they bothered to look at all. 

John’s piece. Unfinished and shoved away, like a spoiled memory. 

Why he’d forgotten about it made him feel stupid and dim-witted, even lower than Anderson.

The things he’d been planning for the day had been put away and replaced by this re-awakened task. After all, John was in a sour mood and Sherlock could try to make it melt away with the notes that were specially picked out and arranged just for him. He retrieves his violin from the corner of the room, gently puts the piece on the stand, and gets a pencil. 

Time to work.

He removes his violin from its case and puts rosin on the bow, then tightening it with the air of a warrior ready for battle. He looks at the unfinished piece, the notes he’d come to learn and actually never forgotten, and began to play. He gets lost in the music again, like he has always done whenever playing this piece, and it feels freeing and right, like a light shower of rain after the drought of summer. 

He doesn’t notice the hesitant steps that were making their way closer, the man that stopped to lean on the doorway, entranced and completely mesmerised by the music. 

Sherlock stopped abruptly, as the music was undone, and thought about how it could continue. He grabbed the pencil but almost dropped it when John suddenly spoke.

“Why’d you stop?”, John asked, sounding like he’s just woken up from a wonderful dream, only to wake up to reality. 

“I…” Sherlock stuttered, their eyes locked together. He couldn’t hide, not now. “I was composing.”

At this, John suddenly looked furious but in a flash was replaced with deep concern and worry.

“Are you alright? You need to tell me, I’m your friend. The last time you composed… you were in a dark place, and I never want to see that again. Not now, not ever.” John broke the connection as he looked away, his eyes resting on the piece, memories flooding back into view. 

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Sherlock replies, the sudden urge to drop his violin and just reassure and comfort John briefly clouded his thought processes. “Really John, do stop worrying. Nothing’s happened, I’m not bored, and again, I am fine.”   
Time stopped as John searched Sherlock’s eyes for a bare hint of a lie, because the eyes, as they say, are the windows to the soul. The moment dissipated like steam, and just as John turned around to leave, Mycroft enters the room unannounced and not at all apologetic.

“Have I come at a bad time?” he asks.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and retreated to the sofa. “Since when do you ever care about coming at a bad time?” he throws back, going back to his sulking state, facing the worn-down cushions that has seen more sulks from a grown man than probably any other sofa out there. 

Mycroft smirks, and twirls his umbrella. 

“Mummy’s invited you and John to visit Holmes House this weekend, and you know how upset she’ll be if you won’t come,” he says, with an exasperated tenor. He turns to John with a mockingly pleading look in his eye. “Do convince him to come, our mother’s been wringing her hands silly!” he truncates, and heads out the door. “See you there!” he calls out to the room, both occupants not sure of whom it was directed to.


End file.
